Smiling
by benignmilitancy
Summary: When she looked at him, she smiled; and he loved her. When she looked at him, she cried; and he loved her.


…

"Smiling"

…

He loved her.

When she looked at him, she smiled; and he loved her. When she looked at him, she cried; and he loved her.

She had large, unblinking brown eyes, depthless with the wide innocence of youth, bright and cautious and pure…shining dark hair covered her round head, and was salient from her cream-fluid face and her small, open red mouth, which was prone to simple upward curves or downward crescents. She was tiny, by many standards, with short, energetic arms and legs, and a light, frail core; she radiated warm, jubilant, fragrant odors, reminiscent of flower bud-fruit, vastly different than the dirt and muck of normal play. Her sounds were uniquely young, like her great never-ending wonder, and consisted of chirps, squeaks, murmurs, whispers, shouts, shrieks, wails.

He reveled in the inherent sweetness of the simple creature before him.

It was clear in their first meeting that he loved her, since, in his eyes, she was a product of his love. It was unmistakable; he loved her. He would never love another quite the way he loved her. He would always love her, right through her days. He was blessed with the angel of his love to walk beside him.

Some days his angel was almost anything but.

Jaina wailed through the storm, her voice rising in discomfort as the rain beat heavily upon the window; and a fresh silver-blue trail of tears slipped over her face. The room was dark and cold and empty without the warm presence of an eternal brother by her side.

"Shh," said Han, cradling the baby in his arms. "Daddy's here now."

And, for a strange, quiet moment, the baby looked up, following the gentle husk of his voice.

And they smiled at each other.

…

Years passed and the baby grew into a toddler; and he winced often as she tumbled and crashed and collided with all the beautiful, innumerable, shining, dangerous things of the galaxy. She would grovel, on an open belly, to explore all that was laid out before her.

Han ran into the room.

"Oh, no," he breathed, his eyes growing wide.

A closet had opened, and waves upon waves burst from the seams of capacity. Towers of toys and broken things jutted out in a beastly pile of junk, stretching from the hollow of the floor to the skylight above.

"Mama is gonna be mad at you, Daddy," Jaina said, giggling. She swam in the pile as Han rubbed his face and glanced at his chrono.

"Mama is gonna slay me," Han sighed, "with a fifty-kilo long honey-do list."

She blinked, not fully understanding this. He bent down and picked her up, watching her yawn ferociously as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Mama's gonna be mad," she said quietly.

Han smiled.

…

Years passed and the toddler grew into a little girl.

He didn't know the strict rules of her world, being an outsider; but she allowed him in, much to that strange endearment known only between a man and his daughter.

Han sat in a chair in the sunlight, on a throne reserved for him at the grand feasting table. He grinned slightly, leaning forward. He feigned surprise, bowing his head in apology as Jaina reprimanded his unseemly manners.

"And Jacen and Anakin can have some too," she declared, clinking small glasses together for her brothers, "'cause they are the good knights of the kingdom and they slayed the bad dragon all dead."

Han looked to the left.

"What about Uncle Luke? He is a knight too, you know," he said.

"No!" Jaina huffed. "He was a bad knight today! None for him!"

Han glanced at Luke, who shrugged.

Pouting, she knocked over the pink table set. Her brown hair twisted in the summer wind; her dark eyes narrowed indignantly as she crossed her round arms.

Han swept up the little girl and threatened to drop her on the grass.

"No, no, no!" she shrieked, her face growing pink with wild amusement. "I'll be good! Don't do it Daddy!"

"Too late!" Han said. "Now we will feed the lady of the castle to the dragon!"

"Feed her! Feed her! Feed her!" her brothers chanted, banging their fists on the table.

Jaina shrilled in half-fear, half-ecstasy as she swooped down into the belly of a warm white dragon and was hoisted up into the wonders of the blue sky.

…

Years passed and the little girl grew into a somber young woman, a woman of unvoiced grief, a carrier of tragedies untold.

In those days he wished he could feed her to a dragon.

Then they clashed often; then their wills were drawn out, hers and his, in the sand; but were washed ashore and drawn again, boundaries made and destroyed; and where he ended and where she began was muddied once more.

"I know what I want, Dad," she said, standing defiantly in the doorway, chin raised, mouth drawn tight.

"No, you don't," said Han.

"I do!" she screamed.

"You don't," Han said, his voice rising to a fine, bubbling anger. "You don't."

She opened her mouth to reply, but, in unspeakable fury, closed it and stormed off.

He sniffed, exhaling his erect chest.

Then he crossed the room, shutting the great door dividing them; and down the wall he would slump.

He smiled bitterly as he picked up a familiar bottle, many bottles; and he almost broke in the liquid waves of reflection staring back at him.

"You don't know what love is, kid," he whispered. "But I do."

…

Years passed and the young woman went away, and Han never looked upon her face for many years afterward.

But many years afterward his world collapsed suddenly; and many years afterward the invincible, indestructible man grew grey and slight…he walked slowly and spoke little.

His heart hung heavily over the shadows of his soul.

One day she returned to him, in the midst of a great, thundering, lonely storm.

With the everlasting rain beating heavily down upon the window, he silently sat before her.

She stood.

She stood and said nothing, for she was weary, weary of words, weary of actions, weary of thoughts and weary of intellect; weary of the mind, weary of the will. She was weary standing within foreign bodies which were not her own…She grew weary of suffering psychic wounds which were not of her own design.

But then her father smiled.

"Hello," he said.

She took his face in her hands and kissed the forehead.

"Oh, Dad," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said.

He grasped his child's precious hand and felt the warmth glowing from her fingers. He looked up with his tired, solid eyes. He reached for her, and brushed away the dew film forming on her placid face. He placed his palm on one of her sleeping, flushed cheeks.

He let go of the warm hand.

He let go of the warm face.

Then, smiling, he let go.

…


End file.
